


Following Instruction

by Predatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All in the Head, M/M, Not Real Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:57:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt suggested that we've seen Mycroft ordering Sherlock about in his mindpalace. What if he orders him to do something more pleasurable?</p>
<p>Holmescest-in-the-head (why isn't there a tag for that). Not really about incest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Following Instruction

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt led me in the direction of thinking about the differences between the mindpalace and reality, and between mindpalace characters and the real characters (what we see shows there are strong differences).
> 
> So it's Holmescest, but it's not about the brothers _actually_ wanting to have sex with each other, it's about something else. Intimacy? Control? Comfort? How Sherlock might want things he cannot allow himself to have or want.
> 
> Set between The Empty Hearse and Sign of Three, so Sherlock is sad about losing John to Mary, and worrying about having to be a best man.

 

In bed, Sherlock opened the door of his mind-palace, entertained as usual when it flicked between his own home door, his brother’s very dignified door, and the door of the last case he’d taken, complete with crime-scene tape. He didn’t always spend too much effort stabilising his own visualisations, partly because free-associating had led him in a few useful directions, and partly because spending time fixing the images took up a certain amount of mental effort and it wasn’t worth it if he was merely resting.

This time he was at home. He wasn’t in the mood for thinking about John, which meant thinking about Mary, which meant thinking about the immense cumulative balls-up which was no doubt going to follow from anybody picking _him_ to be Best Man. He turned around sharply, and was in a different part of London.

Bart’s? No. For once he wasn’t in the mood for dismembered things, a fact which would no doubt have surprised John, except he wasn’t thinking about John. He’d had a rough time of it Outside. Outside London, outside the country, outside everything his mind was likely to hit at a gallop and take to a successful conclusion.

“It really is remarkable how much your mental capacities, which were never that impressive to begin with, have diminished outside your normal locale.”

“Shut _up,_ Mycroft.”

“Your lip’s wobbling, little brother.” Faint distaste.

There wasn’t much he could say to that. He’d lived through the lot of it. Then he’d found that _home_ no longer meant _John,_ and all that promised future, all that talking-to-John-in-his-head now meant nothing. And he’d ended up having to save John for somebody else. It all added up to wanting comfort, which he never did. He didn’t need his mental image of his brother to tell him his brain was malfunctioning (which it never did).

He looked around. They were in Mycroft’s flat in Knightsbridge, which was in no way, shape or form anything that added up to Sherlock’s comfort.

“Of course it is,” said Mycroft. “My home is perfectly comfortable, and it may readily be at your disposal any time you wish to ask.”

Sherlock sighed, because of course he’d been used to the comforts of the world, good sheets, an excellent coat, his scarf -- and he’d been used to these things because Mycroft made them available. And he’d never ask for the use of any of Mycroft’s things.

“I really think I must insist,” said his version of Mycroft. “You’re not taking care of yourself, and that makes it my responsibility. John and Mary have each other now. And we have each other.”

“I find that disturbing.” Sherlock shuddered, in a way he would certainly have been able to suppress outside his own mind.

“But I must insist you take care of some of your bodily needs.” Infinitesimal pause. “Your ‘transport’, as you would have it.”

“I refuse to be lectured on eating disorders by a man struggling with his own relationship with food!”

“Your knowledge of my eating-habits is less than current,” said Mycroft, “while my knowledge of your personal care is in all ways up-to-date.” _Damn. I can sometimes get to the real one that way, but the one in my mind is better-defended._

Sherlock looked down sooner than agree with his brother, even mentally.

“Otherwise,” said Mycroft, “you are lacking in sleep, comfort and sexual release. Dealing with any of that will both soothe you and clarify your thoughts.

“Every time I think I have reached the depths you are capable of...!” Sherlock began hotly.

“Except, I am you.” Mycroft bowed his head slightly. “And you know very well my original would never lay a finger on you, nor you on him. That’s not what this is about. Now remove your clothes, please, and open the bed.”

Sherlock was slightly amused to realise his mental self was now fully-dressed, right up to the Belstaff and the scarf, and they were in the bedroom. He took everything off, folding it, and did as he was told, awaiting the next order.

“Lie down. Do nothing to conceal yourself.”

He did.

“Touch yourself.”

He did.

“Oh, Sherlock, _such_ a paucity of imagination! There is no need whatsoever to _start_ with the cock,” Mycroft went on.

Irritably aroused, Sherlock tweaked his own nipples (filing himself in the probable majority of the male population for which this didn’t do much), and started in on the inner thighs ( _that_ , on the other hand, did). Concentrating on thighs, balls and arse was doing a fair amount to shut off his brain, for now, so he continued.

“Excellent visual aesthetics,” said Mycroft. “A violinist’s fingers are most elegant, and a sexual flush on your alabaster skin...”

With one part of his brain, Sherlock was quite convinced that Mycroft would never describe him as having an alabaster skin, but he was outvoted by the quite wicked part that imagined having a good look at himself wanking (not that he’d got to the main event yet).

“Now bring your hands into play properly,” said Mycroft, and Sherlock gasped sharply, going for his cock with one and his balls with the other. He squeezed his eyes shut, caught between ‘horribly embarrassed’ and ‘wanting to watch’.

“Oh, tut, tut, tut!” said Mycroft. “Altogether too hopelessly coarse form.”

Sherlock snarled as his subconscious disinterred _that_ particularly infuriating moment from one of his early fencing-lessons. “Then I suggest, _brother_ , that you show me how it is done!”

Mycroft sighed, as though mildly burdened. Sherlock could hear him opening his trousers and getting himself out. Opening his eyes, Sherlock watched. He doubted Mycroft was actually that big -- he doubted _anyone_ was actually that big -- but he couldn’t deny that he couldn’t take his eyes off the thing.

Mycroft was now making soft noises he’d never heard from his brother except involving cake, and using delicate, fluttery gestures around the head at the end of each smooth stroke.

“Oh, get on with it!” said Sherlock.

“If you insist.” Mycroft removed his hands and walked over to the bed, and that was all kinds of wrong, except he showed no signs of wanting to touch or get in. Then he started to masturbate again, more vigorously, aiming himself at Sherlock’s face. “ _Dirty_ boy!” he gasped, as they both started to come, loud and hard.

Sherlock was entirely uncertain what mental crevice _that_ particular fantasy had crawled out of, but he had to admit the result had been a long, comfortable night’s sleep, even if cleaning-up was going to be awkward because he’d waited till the morning.

He now felt even less like seeing his brother’s smug face than he had before, if possible.


End file.
